Holidays
A couple weeks ago, I made the mistake of going through old Gegner family photos and videos from the early 2000’s. We used to have what seemed like such a good relationship. The family devotions before Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. My mom’s phenomenal cooking and the piles of food - mashed potatoes, gravy, corn pudding, green bean casserole, an assortment of cookies and desserts. The escalating craziness after dinner. My dad’s weird dancing. My sister’s inappropriate jokes. The pranks. I can’t forget the time when my nephew left a fake pile of poop in the bathroom only to horrify my sister. The “forced marches” (rain, snow or shine) often not long after a meal. The funny songs recorded with my nieces and nephews. The international guests. And of course, the comments from my dad that “family is so important.”
Yes, family is so important…or so it would seem. Sadly, this fragile family was obliterated in October of 2016. For the first time, we decided not to visit my parents’ house on Thanksgiving 2016, explaining that it wasn’t good for our son to be around my dad. We offered to meet my brother’s family elsewhere, but they declined our invitation. No one in my immediate biological family wanted to see us. They were going to stand behind my dad at all costs. Pretty soon, the aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews would join the wagon circling. The testimony of a child didn’t matter.
Over the next several years, I tried to reconnect with my family on so many occasions, but my efforts were fruitless. On one occasion, I brought my parents food from the restaurant I had been working at. I raked their leaves. I wrote an apology letter to the family for my over reactions. I told my dad that I forgave him. I also asked questions - lots of questions. My parents didn’t like that. There were so many questions which they outright refused to answer. I showed up on their door step unannounced on a number of occasions because they wouldn’t respond to my emails. In turn, they changed the locks on their house. They threatened me with a restraining order. Eventually, in 2019, we agreed to meet with a family therapist. The therapist convinced my parents to take a DNA test to prove that they were indeed my biological mother and father (it’s a long story, but in summary I wasn’t convinced that they were at the time). In the next session, my parents refused to share their raw DNA and my brother likewise aggressively guarded their raw DNA and refused to take a DNA test himself (because he didn’t see a reason to). This led me to question my brother’s relationship to me.
The unanswered questions were everywhere. My family couldn’t explain where my dad and brother stayed after my mom, sister and I returned from France to the United States in May 1980 (Our family moved out of our apartment in Chalon, France and kept paying rent for 2-3 months while my dad and brother were in an undisclosed location). My family couldn’t expound on any of my disturbing memories. The men who took my dad away in the night. The stranger at the front door. There were at least 7-8 troubling memories. I pushed and pushed and my parents (and brother) pushed me away. I was withheld information because “I was going about it the wrong way.” Yet they insisted that there were no secrets. All this time, my parents sent cards, bizarre drawings and gifts in the mail. Yet they often ignored my emails and questions and denied my offers to meet.
Finally, something broke in 2019. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t walk the tightrope any longer. I was weary of playing the game. On Father’s Day 2019, l was so upset that I loaded all of my dad’s artwork accumulated over the years into my car, drove to my parents and piled it all on their front porch. I left everything. The portrait of my wife, the scripture calligraphy given to us as a wedding gift, the sketch of four year old me sleeping, the oil landscapes from the 1970’s. Mean or not, I knew it was a step I needed to take. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating. The distress was amplified as I had a migraine aura (blurred vision) while driving home. Not long after, my parents returned the favor by leaving all our stuff still stored at their house on our back porch.
So yeah…holidays are tough. It turns my stomach simply recounting these details. For many years, each holiday felt like a mashup between party and funeral. I celebrated with one family while I quietly mourned the loss of another. Sometimes, I would crack under the smallest criticism or letdown. I just couldn’t handle the emotional dichotomy.
Fast forward three and a half years later and I’m in a much better place. I still have zero relationship with my biological family, but my heart is stronger. I used to be defined by my parents. I wondered how I would make it without them. Now I’ve been forced to learn to live without them. It’s not the path I wanted, but it’s the best possible alternative. I can live in resentment and frustration or I can move on. I still have questions and most of them will probably never be answered. I wonder will it even matter in eternity. As hard as it is sometimes, I try to pray for my family. I ask for the strength to wish them well. Do I still struggle with bitterness and anger? Of course. But I’m working through it.
This past Thanksgiving was perfect. We visited a friend’s family on Thanksgiving day, had another friend over for dinner and then celebrated Thanksgiving again with my wife’s family on the weekend and I had the chance to meet up with an old friend. It felt like a party. I was surrounded by people who love me and accept me. I felt peace knowing that I don’t need to understand or carry the baggage of my biological family. This Thanksgiving, with God’s help, I’m proud to say I managed to leave the black suit and tie on the hanger.
“There is an appointed time for everything…A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4
Photo by Karolina Grabowska
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